


Final Club

by biggayidiot



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: (Reluctantly), :'), Alternate Universe - College/University, Best Friends, Boys In Love, Crying, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Makeup Sex, Making Out, Pre-Canon, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming, Sexual Repression, Sober Sex, i ask: is it a stewy/kendall fic if there's no drug use, top Stewy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:42:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28005591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biggayidiot/pseuds/biggayidiot
Summary: Stewy turns toward his room, but Kendall kicks a leg out to nudge Stewy’s thigh. “Hey.”Stewy looks back. It sucks, badly, that he feels a pang of affection looking at strung-out, exhausted Ken. “Yes, your highness?”Kendall smiles, tiny. “I’m sorry. And thank you.”Stewy sighs. He could be real, for once, could be honest, but instead he says, “Just don’t let it happen again,” in a sarcastic, chiding tone.
Relationships: Stewy Hosseini/Kendall Roy
Comments: 12
Kudos: 71





	Final Club

**Author's Note:**

> I went to college in Boston an estimated 15 yrs after Kendall and Stewy would have been there for undergrad BUT now I can't stop thinking about them at my fave Cambridge bar so I'm...distraught!!! Also they are absolutely 100% final club boys (for those who haven’t seen The Social Network — final clubs are frats but for the 1%) so I decided to put them in the worst one I've ever been to lmfao
> 
> This is my first fic in the Succession fandom after becoming ADDICTED to this pairing. Hope season three opens up people's eyes to the radical possibilities of gay service sub Kendall Roy xoxo

The Spee clubhouse is claustrophobic on the tamest of nights, but on this Saturday in November, the house is liable to fucking explode. Stewy is pushed up against the wall of an ornate sitting room, inches from the sweaty, red nape of some Senator’s son. Thank god girls are finally showing up; for about an hour there, Stewy was worried he’d be surrounded by Connecticut boys in jackets and ties for the rest of the night. “Rollout” by Ludacris pounds over dubiously mounted speakers, thumping in Stewy’s chest. He takes a gulp of his scotch and soda.

“Hey.” A voice from next to Stewy. He turns, but obviously — Kendall, displaying his singular talent for making Burberry look like Men’s Warehouse. He’s shamelessly forcing his way through a throng of people, not caring whose chest he’s elbowing. Kendall gives Stewy a nudge and settles next to him.

“You look like shit, dude,” Stewy says, nudging Kendall back. He does: scrawny and twitchy, gaunt dark circles already forming. Stewy mentally steels himself for a long night.

Kendall huffs, an attempt at a laugh. “Wow, thanks.” Stewy picks up on it instantly: a distinct Kendall mood, something like anxiety, or maybe self-consciousness, that usually ends in record-breaking drug usage and a blowout with whoever’s nearby (nine times out of ten, it’s Stewy). Stewy drinks. “What’s that?” Kendall asks.

“Scotch and soda.”

Kendall makes a grabbing gesture. Stewy gives him the rest. “Have you seen Lydia?” Kendall asks as he drains the drink. 

“Yeah, we talked for a sec. She hates me, for real.”

A bit more of a smile from Kendall. “Yeah, she does.”

“And that’s why you’re made for each other.”

An actual laugh from Kendall, stupid and goofy. Stewy smiles. Kendall claps Stewy on the back. “I’m gonna go find her. I’ll see you in a bit, man.” 

“Alright.”

Stewy watches Kendall head toward the bar (a bar bar, no expense spared at the Spee). He turns and wades into the crowd. 

The two circle each other the whole night. Sidling up next to one another at the bar for a moment, telling embarrassing childhood stories about one another in a circle of their friends and getting huge laughs, taking a brief cigarette break outside in the Massachusetts cold, a shitty hand rolled cig Stewy thought would be cool but falls apart after a few drags. Stewy watches Kendall drink, and smoke, and do discreet bumps off his apartment key. His eyes get glassy, like a fish’s. Stewy knows that expression intimately. Not like Stewy’s sober and disapproving — by the time one A.M. rolls around he’s faded after scotch then tequila then scotch then shotgunning two Bud Lights with Spee guys then bong rips with a girl from his economics seminar. It’s different with Kendall, though. It’s never a normal Saturday night getting fucked up for getting fucked up’s sake. There’s always something to tamp down. At one-thirty, as Stewy tries to look like he’s not watching Kendall and Lydia shout at each other, he estimates they’re getting to the tipping point.

“Come here,” Kendall says to Stewy in passing, beelining to the nearest bathroom. Stewy sees Lydia in the corner, being consoled by a Spee guy who is the diametric opposite of Kendall. Stewy follows. 

Kendall shuts and locks the door behind them. He sits on the edge of the tub, producing a baggie of coke from his pants pocket. “Rough night,” Stewy tries to joke. Obviously. Kendall’s weekends are generally a series of rough nights. Kendall doesn’t answer, just piles some coke onto the back of his hand. He has that hangdog look on his face, like all his features are being tugged down by invisible string. “Okay, but seriously, are you good?”

“No, I’m not ‘good,’” Kendall says. “Lydia is being insane. I think she’s fucking Wes.” He starts to bring his hand up to his nose, then pauses and gestures towards Stewy. Stewy declines. Kendall inhales and tips his head back. 

“Who cares? She is insane. Dump her, put yourself out of your fucking misery.”

“My family loves her, though. Her dad--”

“This isn’t like, an arranged marriage.”

Kendall considers this. Nods. Rubs at his nose with his palm. “Wanna do a line?”

“Why not.”

Kendall moves over to perch on the closed toilet seat, cutting lines on the countertop. “I’m like, basically sober right now. What the fuck.”

“That cannot be true,” Stewy says. He considers Kendall, sitting in front of him. No way he’s “basically sober,” with his slack-jawed breathing and shaking hands. “You’re really giving off coke bender vibes right now.”

“There are worse ‘vibes’ I could be giving off.”

“Oh, I’m fully aware. In half an hour you’ll lose your keys and--”

“Why are you a fucking Puritan all of a sudden?” Kendall digs around in his pocket and pulls out a fifty dollar bill, curled up at the edges from where he’s rolled it into a tube. He hands it to Stewy. 

Stewy does a line. Feels it wash over him like an electric current. “You’re just getting a little predictable.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“The, like...” Stewy considers taking it all back with a quick “never mind, never mind,” but he watches Kendall rail two lines in a row and says it anyway. “The, like, every weekend being a total shitshow ‘cause you get fucked up and black out and get all moody. It’s your thing. And it fucking sucks.” Stewy takes the bill from Kendall and does another. 

“Fuck you, I’m not moody.”

“I hate to break this to you, Ken, but you’re really fucking moody. Like, what do you call all this.” 

“Fuck off.” Kendall starts to cut another line. 

“Maybe not that,” Stewy says. Kendall looks up at him.

“What?”

“Maybe you shouldn’t do another line.”

“Dude, what’s your deal? Are you like, chaperoning me, or--”

“No, I just know you’re gonna do some stupid shit when you could go home and be sad about Lydia or whatever like a normal person. Like, normal people know when to call it, dude, it’s already late and...”

He trails off. It hit. Stewy almost regrets it. _Like a normal person._ He knows this about Kendall: he’s not charming, he can’t tell a joke, he’s awkward around girls and the Spee guys and at networking events and with his family, and he hates himself for it. Stewy is the one person Kendall can be not-normal around, and not worry about it. Stewy finishes the beer he brought in with him and averts his eyes. 

“You’re a fucking prick,” Kendall says, and means it. He stands up, pockets his coke and his credit card and his fifty dollar bill. Maybe Stewy’s imagining it, but he thinks he sees Kendall’s eyes welling up. 

“Look, I didn’t mean it in a--”

“You’re so fucking righteous all the time,” Kendall says. His movements are aborted and jerky when he rinses his hands in the sink, not bothering to wipe them dry. Stewy feels like he’s watching Kendall’s brain process in real time: move feet, extend arm, blink. Kendall shoves past him. Before he opens the door, he says, “I never asked you to take care of me or whatever. I don’t give a shit about what you do but you’re obsessed with me and it’s fucking weird, man. I can handle myself.” He opens the door and is sucked back into the crowd of rich bodies.

Stewy rubs at his face. He thinks that maybe Kendall is projecting a little harder than usual tonight.

***

Stewy leaves around three A.M., as the party finally starts to die down. Kendall has disappeared, but not before accidentally smashing a bottle of Crown Royal he tried to nick from behind the bar and getting into an exasperated argument with a Spee brother. Stewy watched and laughed and promptly felt bad about it.

Stewy’s apartment is within walking distance of the Spee house, so he braces against the cold and takes a brisk walk home. He strips, takes a piss and a glug of mouthwash, pulls on a pair of boxers and shittily packs a bowl. He’s still wired from the coke. He tries not to think of Kendall but he does and he’s annoyed with himself. He blows smoke out the window next to his bed. He doesn’t wish Kendall were there giving a tearful apology or whatever; more along the lines of wishing that Kendall would pass out in the gutter or that Wes would punch him in the face. Besides the Kendall thing, Stewy had a good night, and he hates that that’s now become more of the rule than the exception. His chest is tight when he comes to the stoned realization that maybe he’d feel less beholden, or at least have more fun, if he kept Kendall at an arm’s length. Maybe he’d be able to actually have a girl over more than like, once a semester.

He takes another hit and lets his head loll against the wall. He can see Kendall’s backpack and a pair of his sweatpants on the floor, from his vantage point. Stewy checks the time — almost four A.M. He settles into bed, leaving his half-smoked bowl on the window sill. He wagers with himself: three hours, watch. 

***

A tepid knock on Stewy’s door around seven A.M. Stewy doesn’t hear anything until the door is being pounded on and the handle is being jiggled. Stewy gets out of bed, grabs Kendall’s sweatpants, and answers the door. 

Kendall looks like death. Jacket missing, sweat-stained Ledbury dress shirt, puffy eyes that look like they’re in pain from being open and unblinking for so long. “Hey, sorry,” he says, “I—“

“Keys or whatever, right,” Stewy says. His throat is raw. He lets Kendall in. “These are yours,” he says, tossing the sweatpants over the arm of the couch. 

“Oh, thanks,” Kendall says. 

Stewy fills a glass with water in the kitchen and downs the whole thing. Kendall is still standing there, looking dumb. Stewy wills Kendall to say something, then wills himself to say something, but neither do. He puts the glass in the sink and heads to his room. “Make yourself at home. Sleep on the couch or whatever.”

“Yeah, thanks. Again.” 

Stewy shuts the door to his bedroom and gets back in bed. He hears Kendall run the tap, then the soft creaking of Kendall adjusting his position on the couch. He gets a little thrill from all of this, honestly, Kendall staying where he’s told to stay and not bugging Stewy when he doesn’t want to be bugged. He knows Kendall will still be there when he wakes up five, six hours later. That’s always the best part of a terrible night out with Kendall: Stewy accepting a poorly delivered non-apology and Kendall’s body in his bed. Penance for Kendall acting like a dickhead — maybe not penance that actually stops Kendall from doing the same stupid shit the next week, but they both get what they want out of it. Stewy can feel himself getting a half-chub and literally rolls his eyes. He turns over and falls asleep again. 

***

Stewy wakes up past noon. Still feels horrible, but that’s par for the course. Kendall is dead to the world on the couch, sweatpants and no shirt, mouth open against an ugly throw pillow. He looks the same sleeping as he did when he was a kid, Stewy notices. He goes to the kitchen. 

Stewy takes out a blender and starts dumping shit in. Freezer-burnt fruit and milk and a scoop of protein powder he uses every day even though he only works out twice a week, max. The blender is loud, but he doesn’t care. Kendall stirs and rises up on his elbows. “Dude,” Kendall says, his voice distorted by dry mouth and fucked up sinuses. 

“What’s up,” Stewy deadpans, not turning, watching his subpar smoothie blend and blend and blend, almost comically loud. 

Kendall falls back on the couch. “Loud.”

“Yeah, it’s a blender. And also, my apartment.” Stewy finally stops the blender. He pours a large glass for himself, and the remains into a smaller rocks glass. He walks over to Kendall and sets the small glass on the coffee table. 

Stewy turns toward his room, but Kendall kicks a leg out to nudge Stewy’s thigh. “Hey.”

Stewy looks back at Kendall. It sucks, badly, that he feels a pang of affection looking at strung-out, exhausted Ken holding Stewy’s bad smoothie. “Yes, your highness?”

Kendall smiles, tiny. “I’m sorry. And thank you.”

Stewy sighs. He could be real, for once, could be honest, but instead he says, “Just don’t let it happen again,” in a sarcastic, chiding tone.

Kendall laughs. He puts the glass on the coffee table and lays down, worming back under a blanket. “Okay, dad.”

Stewy raises his eyebrows, satisfied when Kendall starts to blush. He heads back to his room. _Dad_. That’s a new one. 

***

A couple hours later, November sun already starting to set, Stewy sits in bed absentmindedly highlighting every sentence in his accounting textbook. His head fucking hurts. 

There’s a shy knock on his door. “Yeah,” he says. 

Kendall comes in and sits on the edge of Stewy’s bed. He rubs at his eyes, then looks at Stewy. “What are you doing?”

Stewy caps his highlighter. “Accounting. I’m not Roy rich, I actually have to do homework sometimes.”

Kendall smiles, big and unselfconscious. Stewy loves that, immediately forgets anything he just read about partnership agreements. “Wouldn’t know. That must be so hard for you,” Kendall laments. Stewy laughs — Kendall, landing a joke? He nearly pinches himself. 

Kendall scoots back so he’s sitting fully at the foot of the bed. He sees the half-smoked bowl on the window sill and holds it up. “Can I?”

“It’s from last night, but yeah, if you want.”

Kendall nods. He cracks the window and lights up. Stewy reads the same sentence four times over. _Due to mutual agency, any partner has the ability to incur debt for the partnership. Due to mutual agency, any partner has the ability..._ He gives up and watches Kendall as covertly as he can. Kendall’s so practiced, barely reacting when the lighter flame licks his thumb. Good with rolling papers and AmEx cards and throwing back liquor without a chaser. Stewy thinks about how he used to have to light the bowl for Kendall in ninth grade. 

When Kendall’s done, he shuts the window and moves up the bed, lying next to where Stewy sits against the headboard. He gets under the covers and turns on his side. His bare feet touch Stewy’s calf, a jolt of cold. “Jesus Christ, Kendall, do you not have socks?”

“They were really sweaty, I took them off.”

“Gross.”

Kendall rubs his freezing feet against Stewy’s leg like he’s trying to start a fire with the friction. Stewy playfully shoves the back of Kendall’s head. In profile, Stewy can see Kendall smile and close his eyes. 

They stay like that for a while, maybe a little more than an hour. Stewy is aware of that point of contact the whole time, Kendall’s feet against his calf shifting as he sleeps, finally warmed up to human temperature. Sober-ish Kendall is like having a dog, Stewy thinks, not unkindly. Sweet and floppy. Would do tricks if he asked. Stewy fights the urge with every paragraph he’s not retaining to reach out and touch. Kendall’s hair is a bit longer than how he usually wears it. Stewy touches a sweaty curl behind Kendall’s ear. His hair is softer, like down, when he lets it grow out from the usual buzz. Kendall stirs. Stewy snatches his hand away. Kendall turns over onto his back, cheeks flushed from sleep and warm. He and Stewy are pressed against each other now, touching all the way from hip to foot. Stewy catches himself holding his breath.

A few moments later, Kendall blinks his eyes open. His indignant, just-woke-up look softens his cheeks and under-eyes. Stewy could honestly puke with how badly he wants to kiss Kendall right now. He’s known Kendall for fifteen years, has indulged in their weird no-strings-attached-best-friends thing since they were in high school; he’s not sure why he still feels thrilled and ashamed in equal measure at the thought of taking Kendall’s face in his hands. 

“What time is it?” Kendall rasps. 

“Almost four.”

Kendall stretches his arms above his head. “I heard Noah and Conrad are doing some drinks thing at the house tonight,” he says. “Wanna go? Or we could do the Longfellow or something. If you want.”

Stewy’s impulse is to agree, he could always go for a drink, but then he thinks he might want to try leading by example. Fuck. 

“Or I could go fuck myself,” Kendall says after a prolonged silence from Stewy. 

“No, sorry, I was thinking.”

“That’s a first.”

Stewy rolls his eyes and puts a hand over Kendall’s mouth. Kendall laughs through Stewy’s fingers. “Shut up,” Stewy says. He’s leaning over Kendall now, and suddenly he’s choked up with the desire to prise Kendall’s mouth open, to see the wet red of his tongue. He releases his hand. Kendall looks dazed. And almost well-rested, Stewy notices. “I think I’m gonna stay in.”

“You’re joking.”

“No, I don’t know.”

“Let’s just do the Longfellow, then, it’s right there.”

“Nah, I still feel like shit from last night, dude, I don’t know how you do it.”

Bingo. Not too harsh, not an indictment, but he also didn’t have to grovel. Kendall looks like he’s really giving some thought to this. Stewy knows he hates showing up to things alone without Stewy as the warm-up act. “Can I hang out, then?”

“Obviously.”

“For the record, you’re lame for this one.” 

“Can’t hang, sorry.” Stewy permanently closes his textbook and tosses it to the ground. He slumps against the headboard and slips further under the covers. Kendall sits up and grabs the bowl from the window sill. He’s still shirtless; Stewy can see the pretty, pale stretch of unblemished skin over the ridge of Kendall’s spine. Kendall uses the butt of the lighter to examine the contents of the bowl. “That’s kicked,” Stewy says. 

“Yeah, I’m gonna pack another.” Kendall swings his legs to get off the bed, but Stewy takes a gentle hold of his wrist. Kendall looks back at Stewy with the tiniest hint of a smile. “What?”

“Come here,” Stewy says. He’s weirdly nervous, making a move as sober as he is. He’s used to at least a couple hits or a drink or something before he and Kendall do anything. In a startlingly self-aware moment, Stewy makes a mental note to examine his relationship with drugs and sex if he’s going to get on Kendall about it, but quickly puts that out of his mind. He tugs lightly on Kendall’s arm.

“What,” Kendall says again, but he goes willingly, kneeing back onto the bed. 

Stewy can’t help but bust into a grin, feeling goofy, like they’re sixteen years old and in Kendall’s bedroom while the rest of the family is away. “Just come here, come here.”

Kendall, bowl still in hand, shifts into Stewy’s space. He’s smiling too, like he’s trying to suppress a laugh. Stewy strains up and kisses him. They both keep their hands where they are, only lips touching, almost kind of sweet and chaste. When Stewy clasps his arms around Kendall’s waist, Kendall breaks away and laughs a nervous, low laugh. “This is so weird.”

“What?”

Kendall doesn’t elaborate, so Stewy goes back in for a kiss. He flattens his hands against Kendall’s lower back. His skin is smooth. Stewy shepherds Kendall towards him, trying to get him closer but trying not to spook him. He loves kissing Kendall, loves the soft swell of Kendall’s lips, loves Kendall’s nose and his hot little exhales. Kendall seems to give all the way in now, repositioning his legs so he’s snug in Stewy’s lap. Stewy gets hot all over. He feels like he might cry, out of nowhere. He moves his hands from Kendall’s back to Kendall’s face, where he can feel stubble from facial hair that barely grows. He kisses Kendall urgently, and Kendall kisses back. After a few moments, Kendall pulls away, drops his head to Stewy’s shoulder. Stewy holds him tight around the waist. “Can I go down on you?” Kendall murmurs into Stewy’s neck. 

Stewy can’t think of anything funny or biting or playful to say, so he palms the curve of Kendall’s head and whispers back, “Yeah.”

Kendall climbs out of Stewy’s lap and kicks the comforter to the end of the bed. Stewy arches off the bed and slips out of his joggers and boxer briefs. He keeps his Harvard hoodie on. When Kendall approaches, Stewy takes him by the chin and gives him one more kiss, then another, then another, until Kendall has to extricate himself. “Take this off,” Kendall says, shoving his hands underneath Stewy’s sweatshirt. Stewy hesitates, but he does it like a Band-Aid, shucking it over his head and tossing it. Kendall scoots back, now caged in by Stewy’s splayed-open knees. He takes Stewy’s cock in his hand. He’s not fully hard yet. Kendall strokes him a few times. “You’re fucking hot,” Kendall says with his head ducked. He chances a nervous, blushy glance at Stewy, at Stewy’s naked body. 

“Sure, sure,” Stewy says, laying back a bit more and not believing a fucking word. He appreciates the sentiment, though. Kendall’s hand feels amazing. Stewy gives an experimental thrust upward. 

“Fuck,” Kendall breathes. “You are, you’re so fucking hot.” 

Kendall takes his hand away and spits in his palm, then starts to jerk Stewy’s cock harder. Stewy bites off a moan. His precum gets Kendall’s fingers all wet. When Stewy musters up the courage to look at Kendall, his face is red and his brow is furrowed and he looks a little bit terrified. This is the most lucid Stewy’s seen him in weeks; Stewy strokes a hand down Kendall’s thigh as some kind of reassurance. Stewy’s fucking hard now. Kendall’s familiar grip and stroke are perfect, special and just for him, almost like he’s had years of practice with the same person. “Can you—“ Stewy starts, but Kendall is already flattening out on his stomach and taking one of Stewy’s balls in his mouth before he can finish his sentence. “Shit,” Stewy says, disbelieving. 

Kendall closes his eyes, Stewy’s cock resting against his face as he nuzzles at Stewy’s balls. He takes the other into the wet clutch of his mouth. Stewy thinks that Kendall looks so stupidly pretty like this and wants to tell him so, but he keeps his mouth shut and grabs his dick instead. He pumps slowly while Kendall sucks. Kendall moans when he feels Stewy’s cock move, when he feels Stewy’s knuckles brush over his face. “You like that?” Stewy asks. He taps Kendall’s brow bone, forehead with his cock. Stewy can feel Kendall try to nod his head.

Kendall stops, resting his head against Stewy’s fleshy inner thigh. Stewy’s hand stills on his dick. “Keep-- keep doing that,” Kendall says. Stewy starts stroking himself again as Kendall pushes Stewy’s thighs further open. Stewy bends his knees, feet planted on the bed. Kendall lowers his head and licks over Stewy’s hole with such a tentative sweetness that Stewy actually gasps.

“Oh my god,” Stewy says. He tips his hips up and keeps jerking himself off. Kendall’s mouth is perfect, maybe even better when Stewy’s sober. The wet wriggling of his tongue, the slick of his spit, the way Stewy can feel Kendall’s mouth moving, mechanical and insistent. Even that, the simple hinge of his jaw, communicating Kendall’s desperate need to be good. With his other hand, Stewy digs his fingers into Kendall’s hair. “So fucking good,” Stewy says. Kendall hums. “Oh, fuck.” Stewy jerks himself faster now, closer, thinking about obedient Kendall and his obedient mouth. He arches his back a little off the bed and pushes closer to Kendall, who wraps an arm under Stewy’s thigh and keeps licking. Stewy’s legs get shaky. “I’m gonna cum,” he chokes out. He keeps stroking his dick, Kendall keeps eating him out, neither lets up, and Stewy cums all over his fist, one of his legs collapsing onto the bed. 

Kendall undoes the knot of limbs that’s formed around him and sits up. Stewy lifts his head and sees Kendall wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. He looks very small. Stewy wipes his hand on the sheets and sits up, too. “Kendall, where the fuck did you learn how to do that. Holy shit.” 

Kendall laughs. It brightens his face. “I thought you were gonna freak out.” 

“I mean, I kinda did, but it was fucking _good_.”

“Good.”

Stewy clears a space on the bed and gestures for Kendall to come closer. Stewy pushes him so he’s lying on his back. He has a brief flash of a wedding night, a blushing bride-sort of fantasy about Kendall, but forces it out of his mind. What the fuck. He bends over and kisses Kendall. Kendall kisses back much harder than before, like he’s gasping. Stewy cups Kendall’s face and rubs his thumbs under his eyes. The skin there is damp. “What do you want?” Stewy asks in a low voice up against Kendall’s ear. He kisses Kendall’s temple, eyebrow.

“Um.” Kendall, his arms slung around Stewy’s hips, clears his throat. “Just, whatever, honestly. Whatever you wanna do.”

“Come on.”

“Um, I think, just keep kissing me.”

Stewy’s heart kicks hard at that. He’d kiss Kendall forever if he wanted him to. “I can do that,” he says. “Hold on.” He tugs Kendall’s sweatpants off. Kendall’s dick is hard and leaking. Stewy leans down and spits on Kendall’s cock, biting his lower lip to keep from grinning too obviously at Kendall’s full-body shiver. He starts stroking him off, firm and full, keeps at it while he gives Kendall a sweet, sloppy kiss.

“Fuck,” Kendall says against Stewy’s mouth, accidentally bumping their teeth together. His eyes are squeezed shut.

“Close?”

“Yeah, fuck, already.”

Stewy laughs. Kendall’s mouth is slack but Stewy doesn’t mind, just keeps kissing him like he asked. His forearm is getting sore, so he slows down and rubs his thumb at Kendall’s cockhead, messily massaging the nerves there, feeling Kendall twitch. That sets Kendall off. His hips jerk and he covers his face with a hand while Stewy kisses his neck. He cums, quietly but so prettily. Stewy kind of feels lucky that he got to see it happen. 

Kendall keeps his eyes closed and his brow furrowed. Stewy cleans his hand off on the sheets again. He runs a hand down Kendall’s arm. “Okay?” He passes his hand over Kendall’s forehead, wiping off a faint sheen of sweat. 

“Yeah,” Kendall finally says. He sits up. “Sorry, I just...” He sits on the edge of the bed and pulls on his discarded sweatpants, then stands up and goes to the bathroom. 

Stewy suddenly feels incredibly stupid, naked on his messed-up bed. He drags his hand against the sheet one more time, but it still feels fucking gross. Maybe it was dumb to do this sober, he thinks. Kendall’s problems are his own, right, maybe they should’ve just gotten stoned like usual and fucked quick and impersonal. It was scary, in retrospect, being so present with Kendall, but he can’t say he didn’t like it. Can’t say he didn’t want more of it. He used to think that weed, or coke, or liquor, or whatever else they decide to try on any given night was what made sex with Kendall so fucking good, “heightening the senses” and all that. Well, shit. 

Stewy gets dressed. He straightens out the comforter. He sits on the edge of the bed and doesn’t know what to do with himself. There’s no noise coming from the bathroom. He rolls his neck and rubs his eyes. 

Kendall emerges from the bathroom. He’s been crying, clearly. He doesn’t say anything, just walks over to where Stewy’s sitting and stands in between his legs, pulling him into a hug. Stewy hugs back. His ear is against Kendall’s ribs. He can hear his heartbeat. 

“Sorry,” Kendall says quietly. 

“It’s okay. You don’t have to say sorry.”

“I haven’t...” Kendall tries again. “I haven’t done. That. In a really long time and--”

“What part?”

“Um, being sober. During sex.”

Stewy rubs Kendall’s back. He wants to melt into a puddle at Kendall’s feet. “It was a lot, huh.”

“Yeah, kind of.”

They stay like that for a few moments. Kendall shifts a little from foot to foot. Stewy can hear Kendall take shuddering breaths through his mouth. He can picture Kendall’s face, has seen him distraught enough times to envision his puffy eyes and the red tip of his nose. All Stewy can think to do is keep rubbing up and down Kendall’s back, saying, “It’s okay. It’s okay.” 

Kendall pulls away after awhile. He sits down next to Stewy. “Can I borrow a shirt,” Kendall asks with big teary eyes. Stewy strokes a hand over Kendall’s hair, from the crown to the nape of his neck. He smiles a little. It gives Kendall permission to do the same.

“Yes, you can borrow a shirt.” Stewy grabs a t-shirt from his dresser and watches it pool around Kendall’s body when he pulls it on. He debates whether or not to say it, but his mouth moves before he can stop himself: “You were really good, Ken. Serious. You’re the fucking best.”

Kendall bumps Stewy with his shoulder and settles against the headboard. He still looks freshly-cried, but a little more calm. “Thanks,” he says. “For indulging me.” He opens Stewy’s nightstand drawer and takes out a plastic baggie and a grinder. Stewy parks himself next to Kendall, laying further down on the bed so his head is nearly in Kendall’s lap. “Wait, don’t lay down yet, hand me the bowl.” Stewy gives over the bowl and lighter. He watches Kendall’s deft fingers pack a bowl. His chest aches.

When Kendall’s finished and about to take a hit, Stewy stops him. “Wait, let me do something,” he says, getting up on his knees. He takes the lighter. “Do the...yeah, inhale.” Kendall rolls his eyes into next week, but he puts the piece to his mouth. Stewy lights the bowl for him. “Do you remember this? You were a fucking pussy.”

Kendall coughs and laughs and coughs, hitting his head against the headboard and laughing more. “Fuck _off_ ,” he says, then, teasingly, “I’m a grown up now.”

“Jury’s out on that one.” Stewy takes the bowl and sparks up. 

The silence is much more bearable now. Smoke makes the room hazy and warm. Familiar. The sun is nearly set, so Kendall gets up to flick on the floor lamp. “How far are you in Metal Gear Solid?” he asks as he gets back into bed.

“I’m stuck on Fortune, dude, it’s so dumb.”

“You literally just have to wait for an elevator, how are you stuck?”

“She comes out of nowhere!”

“If we’re doing the ‘for old time’s sake’ thing today, I’ll beat her for you.”

“My fucking hero.”

Kendall sets up the PS2 and Stewy watches, taking the occasional shallow hit from the bowl, listening to Kendall ramble about Metal Gear Solid, then the new DMX album, then his bullshit corporate comms class. He loves it. He feels fucking happy, and it’s kind of a rush. He feels closer to how he did in the halcyon days of tenth grade and much prefers it to their weekly final club fallouts. He wonders if there's a way he can feel like this all the time.

Kendall is pressed right up against him again, flinching with the controller in his hands, swearing under his breath at the television. Kendall beats Fortune handily, tossing the controller up in the air and giving Stewy a sort of “See? It’s easy” look when he's finished. Stewy has to admit he’s a little impressed.


End file.
